


Before She Goes

by catherineflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Post Oathkeeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 03:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/catherineflowers
Summary: It's the night before Brienne departs King's Landing, and Jaime comes to visit ...





	Before She Goes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainTarthister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTarthister/gifts).



> This was the smut I promised my dear CaptainTarthister some weeks ago when there was a bit of a drought.
> 
> Nothing to warn you about here, it's just a bit of gentle lovin' between a Lady and her good Knight. Let's get it ON!

Brienne wakes, and Jaime is there.

The moonlight slashes through the window, cutting across his face, cold as a knife. He’s thin. Scarred. Hair cut away to almost nothing. Beard gone.

Not the man he was.

He’s sitting on the end of her bed. Turned partly away from her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Not looking at her.

He’s looking at the armour. He’s looking at the sword. The sword sits in its beautiful scabbard, over by her packed bags, ready to leave in the morning, ready to take her out of the city, out to find Sansa Stark. Its golden pommel is blank and colourless in the moonlight, the ruby-studded eyes of the lions black like shadows.

She sits up, slowly and carefully, in her bed. Watching him watching it. She reaches out a hand to him, but her fingers die halfway there, and wilt away from him.

She can’t touch him. She can’t.

She, who held him naked once. She, who was tied to him for days on end. She who cleaned his vomit and cleaned his shit. She who heard his screams, his whispered prayers. She who knows his deepest secret. Suddenly, a touch is too much. Far, far too much.

“Ser Jaime?” she whispers instead. And her voice is just her voice, just the voice of Brienne of Tarth, talking to Ser Jaime Lannister.

He turns to her, his eyes lost in pits of shadow, his cheekbones sharp. He doesn’t say anything.

“Are you all right?” she asks him after a moment. He closes his eyes and turns away again, back to the sword.

She sees his throat move as he swallows. “No,” he says. So soft she can barely hear him.

“Ser, if you have changed your mind about the sword –“

“I haven’t.”

“Oh.”

She sits back, resting on her elbows on her pillows, so that she can regard him better.

He remains unmoving, unspeaking, for several minutes more.

“What is the matter?” she asks. Gently. “What are you doing here?”

He sighs. It’s a long, long breath full of such weariness and yet – an underlying tension, too. “I can’t be feeling this,” he says at last. “I _can’t_.”

“What?” she asks. “Are you unwell?”

He laughs. A bitter, dry laugh. “Perhaps. Perhaps a sickness of the mind? Only – my body seems to be showing _symptoms_ too.”

“Symptoms?” she asks. “What is amiss?”

He sits up, leans back.

She gasps. Almost – only half of it escapes her mouth before she manages to swallow it.

He’s unlaced his breeches partway, and his smallclothes are – are _bulging_ out of the space. His cock is straining against them, the wet, leaking head of the thing clearly outlined through the thin material. He’s _hard_. _Hard._

She instinctively pulls herself back on the bed, her knees going to her chest. She’s aware that her mouth has fallen open.

He looks at her. She looks at him.

“What – what is the cause of this problem?” she says. Trying to keep her voice neutral.

“You,” he says.

She almost laughs. But he’s decidedly _not_ laughing – his face is an open, agonised mixture of torment and longing.

“It makes no sense!” he spits. “I am Jaime Lannister – heir to Casterly Rock, Kingsguard, anointed Knight. Women have thrown themselves at me, body and soul, all my life. This has never happened.”

“Never?”

“Never. And that it would happen for – for …”

He trails off, but she knows what he wanted to say. He cannot believe that it has happened for _her_. Beast that she is.

“You are leaving on the morrow,” he says, leaning forward once more to conceal his obscene secret.

“You must be relieved.”

He shakes his head. “Not right now. Now – now I am _concerned_.”

“Why?”

“I am concerned that this will worsen. That you will depart, and that I will, I will … _pine_ for you.” He looks disgusted at the very thought, his mouth twisting into an expression akin to nausea.

“You will not,” she says. “This – it’s a reaction to all that has happened since we have been together, nothing more. You are home now, Jaime. Safe. You have your duties as a Kingsguard, your - your _family_ too.”

He laughs again. “Cersei,” he says.

She nods. “You have the Queen.”

 “This is not like it is with Cersei,” he says. “Not at all.”

In truth, Brienne would rather not speak of Cersei. Her single encounter with the Queen had been disturbing, to say the least. And what do you say to a man who fornicates with his sister?

“It’s so _strong!”_ he exclaims. “Like … my body has known all these years that lying with my sister and getting her with child was not the way it was supposed to work. And now … now … Gods, Brienne, it’s so strong it _hurts_. All I can think about is pushing you down on this bed and squirting my seed so deep in your cunt that you quicken with my son before your ride out of those gates tomorrow!”

Brienne gasps. The crudeness of his language, the coarseness of his desire – it’s utterly scandalous. But the thought of it – she can picture it! Ser Jaime taking her – mounting her, pushing her legs apart, shoving his smallclothes down about his thighs, revealing his manhood to her …

She swallows, and the feeling travels down her body, into the pit of her stomach and then lower still – a warm throb between her legs. The thought of seeing his manhood in its fully awoken state! Of touching it, maybe, wrapping it in her hand to caress it … the thought of taking it inside her!

The throb turns into an ache, damp and pleasing. He is not the only one who has a problem.

“Is – is that why you came to my room?” she asks. Her voice little more than a whisper. “Were you intending to – to _take_ me, Ser?”

“No!” he exclaims. “Yes,” he admits, a second later. “I had a thought in my head of you lying here beneath your sheets, pleasuring yourself with your fingers and thought you would be better pleased if I introduced you to my cock. It was not a chivalrous thought, I grant you.”

“No,” Brienne says.

“Imagine my disappointment when I found you snoring.”

“I am leaving early on the morrow and I am not like to spend the night in a bed for some time. I thought it better if I slept.”

“But you have … pleasured yourself upon this bed, my lady? Since you have been our guest?”

“Once or twice,” she says, before she can stop herself.

Jaime groans. “Don’t …” he says.

“You asked.”

“I had thought you might reject me. Eject me from the room, perhaps kick me in the balls.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No. But it is what I _need_.”

“Your vows …”

He laughs. “Oh yes. My vows. You know me better that that, surely?”

“Your sister, then.”

He nods. Looks away again, at the sword. It takes him a long, long time to speak again. “I can’t change that,” he says at last, his voice so low she can barely hear him. “I can never change that.”

“You could.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Of course it’s not.”

“Don’t ask me to turn my back on Cersei. I … she … she’s me. A part of me.”

“She spoke to me. At – at the wedding.”

“She would have you killed if she knew.”

“I know. I saw that.”

“So this needs to stop.  It needs to just … go away.”

“You think kicking you in the balls will help?”

“Perhaps.”

“But how would that help me, Ser?”

“You?”

“You think I will not pine on the morrow, my Lord? When we part from each other after … after everything that has happened in the past year? You think I will not worry about you? You think that waking to find you sitting at the foot of my bed in that – that _state_ has not made me burn for your touch as well? How is my kicking you in the balls meant to relieve that?”

He stares at her, stunned. His mouth open.

“Perhaps I should kick you in the balls and then kiss them better for you afterward?”

His breath catches in his throat, and his eyes go wide. Dark. The thought of her kissing his balls … it’s clearly more than he can stand right now.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he says, and his voice is a growl. His eyes a glittering beast’s.

He is more animal than man right now, she thinks. A slave to his cock. She is surprised to find that idea does not frighten her. Much.

“I mean it,” she whispers. And she kisses him.

At least she tries to - she misses his mouth by an inch or so as he lunges for her at the same moment.

But he surprises her. Instead of jumping on her, tearing at her shift, taking her like an animal, he holds her. Just holds her. His arms tight around her back, his face pressed into her neck. His breath warm as he inhales her and then sighs.

Slowly, slowly, his lips find her skin. She feels the slight wet press of them against her jaw, the slight scrape of the stubble below his lower lip. She pulls back to look at his face and his mouth finds hers. She tastes his breath, warm with wine, soft with trembling breath.

His eyes are closed, tight, and his hand finds its way to her face, his palm cupping her cheek, his fingers threading into her hair. His thumb inches across her cheekbone as he kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her.

Softly at first, just gentle catches of her lips with his, then, when he is sure she won’t refuse him, he presses against her, harder, deeper, swallowing her breath. Brienne hears herself make an involuntary sound when he dips his tongue into her mouth, a wet slide against hers, shocking and almost visceral.

No one has ever kissed her this way before.

But then, no one has ever kissed her before. Not truly, not with this feeling. It feels … almost overwhelming, to have one’s mouth be the vessel of such … such _passion_. To be pressed so close against another person’s body, close enough to smell their skin, to feel their heart beating, to hear every soft breath and sigh and hum.

It wakes things in her. New things.

Brienne knows pleasure, has known it since she was a girl – adolescence and instinct drew her hands between her own legs and taught her how to find her release even before she had flowered. But this is different.

It feels like all of her is focused on her mouth. She is just her tongue, gliding against Jaime’s tongue, again and again. She is just her fingertips, stroking around Jaime’s back, feeling his warmth through his clothes, finding that even that is incredible.

The act of love, it seems, is smaller and more delicate than she had ever imagined.

Intensity in details. The press of his nose on her cheek, the furrow between his brows as he kisses her. The soft “oh” of his breath as he pulls away to look into her eyes. The smile they share, full of warmth and longing and _knowing_.

“Take my clothes off,” she blurts. Idiotically. He laughs.

It’s so strong, though – the desire to get even closer to him, to have his skin against her skin, to press and slide and rub against him, to wrap her arms and her legs – her _legs_! – about him.

“If you take mine off!” he whispers, almost giggling.

It’s going to happen. It’s really, really going to happen. His hand pulls her shift up her legs, sliding underneath to feel her skin. He pulls it over her head in a whisper, drops it to the floor.

Beneath, she’s naked. She feels a rush of self-consciousness, but he’s seen it before, and anyway, it’s _Jaime_. She takes hold of the hem of his tunic too, pulling it out of his breeches and up his back. Over his head. Then she tucks her hands into the waistband of his breeches, tugs them down over his hips. He helps her, wriggling enthusiastically out of both breeches and smallclothes and kicking them to the floor.

He’s as naked as she is – his manhood sticks out proudly in front of him, bobbing slightly as he moves towards her. Before she’s thought about it, before she’s had a chance to lose her nerve, she takes hold of his warm length in her palm and shoves it into her mouth. Jaime cries out in surprise, and then hisses an enthusiastic “Yes”.

She’s never done this before of course, but she’s seen it done. The men at Renly’s war camp always seemed to want to show their cocks to her, and if there was a camp follower attached to it at the time, so much the better. Brienne had been disgusted at the time, and bored eventually, but now it worked to her advantage. She’d seen how to use her tongue to please a man, that the head was the most sensitive part of a cock, that concentrating on the little line of skin on the underside, where the head joined the shaft, could drive a man insane with pleasure.

She’s not wrong. Jaime falls back onto the pillows of her bed with a groan, surrendering himself to the pleasures of her mouth. He thrusts up to meet her lips and his cock swells and hardens even further. She steals a glance at his face and sees his head thrown back, his mouth open and eyes closed. His left hand grasps a handful of her hair even as he begs her not to stop. His breath comes in short, hard pants, and he can’t seem to stop whimpering.

She had always imagined that pleasuring a man with her mouth would be an act of service, something she would tolerate to please her lover, but an act to be endured rather than enjoyed. How wrong she was.

Hearing Jaime’s cries, seeing him twist helplessly beneath her, caught in the tides of his rising ecstasy, excite her more than she could ever have anticipated. Her own desire has her lower belly clenched in a tight fist now, and between her legs her cunt is wet and throbs with want.

Unable to bear it a second longer, she lifts her mouth from his cock with an audible slurp. He lifts his head to protest, looking flushed and dazed.

“My Lord,” she says, far more formally than she had intended. “I would offer you my maidenhead.”

 “A chivalrous Knight would demur, I think,” he pants, his eyes huge and dark, his pupils enormous. Then he grins. “But I am long past chivalry – I will take it, and gladly.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Gods please Jaime, yes.”

She all but falls on top of him, and her mouth, still warm and tasting of his cock, finds his. Tongue thrusting into his mouth even as her hips thrust blindly against his. She wants him inside her with every fibre of her being.

He grasps her waist between his hand and his stump and lifts her, parting her legs across him with his knees. He slides his hand between her legs and she moans, but his explorations are tentative and clumsy with his left hand, a little too hard and then a little too soft. Not quite in the right place.

He knows – he looks away and moves his hand, his face flushing further.

“I – I’m not …” he says, but she quiets him with a kiss. Seeks between their bodies for his cock and seats herself atop it, the warm, hard head just nestled at her entrance.

The look on his face as she takes him inside her body is the most purely perfect thing she’s ever seen. His mouth is open, eyes half-lidded. Throat constricted on a groan.

There’s no pain at all for Brienne, but she is surprised by the sensation of having a man inside her. There’s nothing but a sense of fullness to it. Jaime seems overcome, but she is a little … _disappointed_. There’s no great shock of pleasure, no starburst of fulfilment, no grand event to mark the passing of her maidenhead. He’s just inside her.

But then he pulls her down to him, catches her lips with his and kisses her deeply. Anchors his hand on her hip and starts to thrust. His movements slide the length of his body against hers, skin against skin, nipple against nipple, tongue against tongue, each of them overwhelming, each of them melting her.

All these sensations build upon themselves, centred hard between her legs, where he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts. She sits up on him, linking fingers and hands, his left and her right, his stump on her arse. Riding him. Riding him hard.

Oh she can feel it. It’s there, it’s so close, and she can almost … if she could just ….

She grabs his head by the hair and pulls him up, not even sure what she wants him to do, she just needs him to do it, to do _something_ that will be the thing that will take her over the edge. Do something that will make her come.

He sucks her nipples. First one and then the other, gentle and then hard, using teeth, using his tongue, using his fingers on the one he isn’t sucking, and the feeling of it, the _feeling_ …

She’s grunting now, she can hear herself. She can feel the sweat roll down her sides as well, feel herself get red and hot and feels her face contort into what must be the ugliest grimace in the world. And she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care because she’s going to come, she’s going to come, she’s going to _come_ …

“I’m coming!” she calls out. Far too loud – anyone outside her bedchamber would be privy to the fact that she is climaxing, but right then there are no such thoughts in her head. Her whole consciousness is subsumed by ringing, singing pleasure.

She shudders against Jaime and he kisses her with a proud smile, pressing his sweaty forehead to her nose and placing a soft kiss on her chin.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he tells her, which she knows is a horrible, dishonourable lie, but when she opens her mouth to protest, she sees his eyes. He’s gazing at her like she’s the most precious, the most lovely, the most beautiful … and for a moment, she actually believes him.

He rolls her over onto her back, slipping out of her as he does and having to pause to join with her again.

Inside her once more, he rests on his elbows on her pillows, leans over her to kiss her deeply. The hair on his chest is wet with sweat and it tickles as it rubs her nipples, and the warmth of him! She wraps her big arms around his back to press him hard against her. One hand sliding down the length of his spine to urge him on as he starts to move with her again.

She lifts her hips to meet his, wrapping her leg over his thighs.

His breathing grows rapid and the speed of his hips increases until he is slamming into her, his skin slapping hers with every thrust. He doesn’t look like Jaime Lannister any more, he looks open and vulnerable and suddenly in the depths of those sharp green eyes, Brienne sees _him_. Sees the love, the fear, the need.

“Brienne,” he says suddenly. Little more than a desperate gasp. “Oh, Brienne …”

He surges forward and grips her hip tight with sweaty fingers. Holds still. Grunts. Thrusts again with a long, long groan. He is beautiful when he comes. Truly.

He kisses her. Hard. His cock still twitching inside her. She’s wet and warm and full of his seed, and she can’t seem to stop smiling. Nor can he.

“Brienne …” he says again, his voice a hoarse whisper.

A sudden pang of sadness grips her – how wonderful it would be if they were not Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. If they could fall asleep now, sticky and entangled, and do this again when they woke. Take breakfast together and take a walk in the city hand-in-hand. If they could have all the time in the world to be together. But this is it. They are done. This is all they will ever have.

The sun is rising now, kissing the city sky with a pale blue haze. Jaime pulls his softening manhood from her body with a sigh, sitting on the edge of her bed to clean himself of seed and sweat while she lies back naked, legs apart. Arm across her eyes.

Somewhere outside in the city, the Sept bell rings. Jaime looks out of the window, his skin glowing golden in the early morning light.

“Come on,” he says. “Get dressed.”

She sits up. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Picks her clothes up from the floor and throws them at her. He’s grinning, so she does as he bids, curious to see what he has in mind.

When she’s dressed in her breeches and tunic, he doesn’t stop there. Passes her her armour and helps her into it as best he can. Passes her the sword. His sword. Watches with a pained expression as she buckles it on.

“Magnificent,” he whispers softly.

He leads her from the room, leaving it smelling of sex with a wide wet patch on the sheets.

“Where are we going?” she asks as they emerge from the keep into the bright light of the city at dawn.

“The Sept,” he says. “I forgot to get that damn sword blessed.”

They are heading in the wrong direction for Baelor though – he takes her to a smaller Sept in Flea Bottom. Dirty and smelling of piss and wine.

Inside, drunks and orphans alike sleep on the pews, some covered by thin blankets. Some covered by nothing at all. Brienne feels very conscious of her expensive armour, of her bejewelled sword. Conscious of Jaime and his golden perfection.

The Septon sleeps on the altar, a wineskin by his side. Jaime prods the man awake with his boot. He groans and tells Jaime to fuck off.

“What are we doing here?” asks Brienne. “Why don’t we just go to Baelor?”

“The Gods are just as present here,” Jaime says irritably. Boots the Septon again.

“What do you want?” the man groans, opening his eyes. Wider when he sees Jaime’s face.

“You know me?” Jaime says.

“Y-yes, my Lord.”

“Good. Then I can trust you to be discreet?”

“Of course.”

“You’re a drunken pauper anyway, who would believe you?”

“Jaime …” admonishes Brienne.

“What can I do for your Lordship?”

“My Lady’s sword – it needs to be blessed. She embarks on an important mission today and her weapon will need the love of the Gods.”

“Yes, my Lord. My Lady.”

The Septon staggers to his feet, wiping his mouth and straightening what was left of his hair. He turns to get his books.

Jaime grabs his arm.

“Also,” Jaime says. “Marry us?”

Brienne gasps. “Jaime!”

“If you will have me, of course, my Lady?”

“I – I …”

“Begging your pardon, my Lord,” the Septon interjects. “But aren’t you a Kingsguard?”

Jaime ignores him. Turns to Brienne and takes her hand. “I can’t offer you my cloak, Brienne. Not children, not Casterly Rock, not even my companionship. But this will mean that someday, some historian will find the page in this man’s record book and know that truly, Jaime Lannister loved Brienne of Tarth with all his heart.”

Brienne melts. She _melts._ Folds him into her arms and kisses him like no-one’s watching. With every part of her soul. “Yes,” she says against his mouth.

Jaime smiles and turns to the Septon. “Did you hear the Lady? She said yes.”

“As you say, my Lord,” the Septon says. He rummages around for his marriage book, and finds a dirty strip of cloth to bind their hands.

He starts the service, but Brienne barely hears his words. She’s lost in Jaime’s eyes. In the warmth of his hand tied to hers. In the memory of his kisses, of the heat of his body. In Jaime. In _Jaime_.

Afterwards, giddy and grinning, they run back to her room and consummate their marriage. Furtive and hurried, half-dressed and hushed as they can. By the time that he has loved her with his mouth and then his cock, the sun is well up in the sky, and it is time for her to leave.

He watches her with sad eyes as she dresses once again, buckling the sword against her hip.

“I will keep my oath to you,” he says suddenly. His eyes on the sword. “I will be faithful. I am good at being faithful.”

“I know,” she says.

He looks as if he will say more, but he doesn’t. He just nods. Swallows hard, and rises to his feet.

“Come, my lady wife,” he says. “Sansa Stark won’t find herself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this - see, I don't bite always, do I?
> 
> Many many thanks to CaptainTarthister for being an inspiration and a pleasure to write for! I live to make you squee my dear.


End file.
